Till Your Roots Run Dry

She wilts.  A rose silent in its solitary


dying at a death camp of flowers

on a remote Himalayan           mountain.  There’s a place


where some people are            afraid of what grows

from the ground calling it garbage


with a foreign tongue.  After the war of Capital

Gain—also known as economic


conflict, everything’s lost.  So to soothe her

own synapses she uses her thorns


to etch a sweet little ditty.  A slow

 song for a sick rose.   


1 Comment

  1. I identify with this one.

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